Andrew had been out pretty solidly for about a week. With the exception of a couple of hours during the day, he slept soundly. His body barely moved. His face had pain etched into it. His eyes were sunken and exhausted. At this point in time, his body was being nourished through an IV and he stirred only to go to the bathroom. Even this brief stir was hard work for him. He frequently fell back asleep while still sitting up in his bed, or even standing.
One day, I sat near his bed and read while he rested. Suddenly, Andrew jolts up. Alarmed, and somewhat amused, I looked in his direction. He had a complete look of panic on his face as he quickly gathered all the IV tubing around him and threw his legs over the side of the bed to feel out his slippers. Somewhat alarmed, I asked, "Can I help you with something?" He continued on with his bizarre new burst of energy and I quickly got up to assist however I could. He suddenly blurts out, "I have to go...!"
A little bit confused, I tried to get more information. "Go.... where?" He shot me a look that said where the hell are you from?! then responded, "TO THE BATHROOM!!" I stood corrected and a bit baffled for a minute, then frantically joined in the task of untangling his numerous IV life lines from the bed. He hadn't gotten up or moved in days, so the IVs were starting to grow around his bed frame.
Andrew danced around like a child trying to tell his parent he had to go to the bathroom. After about 15 seconds of frantic untangling, Andrew lost patience and just started pulling his IV tower behind him. I kept at the task, trying to free him before it was too late. It was already too late. With one swift and desperate pull on the tower, he became unhooked. He plopped down on the toilet-- not a minute too soon-- while blood is squirting everywhere from his IV. He calmly reached up to his port, clamped the tube and the blood flow stopped as quickly as it had started. Relief was pouring from him.
I was on the verge of frantic from the very beginning just given the drama of the situation. I hadn't been accustomed to such action in that 10' x 15' hospital room we called home for 40 days. Rarely did anything of excitement happen in that room. I opened the door. The nurses station was a few feet from our door, and the only word I had to say was "Blood." And they were there. One of them cleaned up the blood all over the floor while the other one stopped the IV pump and changed the tubing. I plopped myself down on the little couch and just started laughing uncontrollably.
By the time Andrew emerged from the bathroom, the nurses were ready to hook him back up and put him back to bed. He came out with a look of pure relief on his face-- oblivious to the humor in his entire performance.
